


My Modus Operandi Is Amalgam

by lazaefair



Category: The Magnificent Seven (2016)
Genre: Blow Jobs, First Time, M/M, Mixed Martial Arts, Sparring, background Vasquez/Faraday, fighting as flirting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-14
Updated: 2018-07-29
Packaged: 2019-05-07 00:03:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14659020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lazaefair/pseuds/lazaefair
Summary: “You ready?”“Sure am. Are you?”Billy uncurls himself, seamlessly rolling onto his feet and pivoting, bringing his hands up at the conclusion of the movement. Then he smiles. “You have no idea.”MMA AU. Because we could all use some more shirtlessness around here.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimers! Oh boy, are there disclaimers. The sum total of my experience with martial arts is a few months of aikido classes in 2012. And I had no particular interest in MMA as a sport or culture before writing this story, so most of my research comes from googling, Wikipedia, and having picked up random bits of information from several martial artist friends over the years. I did not consult How To Fight Write for this. To any actual MMA people who might still be reading for some reason: I'm sorry, but not that sorry.

Billy knows the new guy - Goodnight - has been looking. It’s hard to miss. Rose Creek isn’t a big gym. Not enough room on the main floor not to brush by each other once, twice, a dozen times when they’re both in the building, and the locker room’s even smaller. Hard to miss that gaze, constant and steady in Billy’s peripheral vision, prickling between his shoulder blades as he trains or teaches classes. Hard to miss those blue eyes quickly, nonchalantly darting elsewhere when Billy looks up without warning and catches him watching. Again. 

It’s not a race thing, not in any gym run by Sam Chisolm. It’s not a minor local celebrity thing, because that wears off after five minutes and this is L.A. anyway. Goodnight meets his eyes easily enough when they’re face-to face - gives the regulation nod of acknowledgment, might even smile a little. But that’s it. Three months of brushing by each other almost daily, over a hundred acknowledging nods, less than half a conversation’s worth of words accumulated between them. Hard to miss that Goodnight’s charmed most of the gym in that time, bantering and trash-talking, flirting with the women in that liquid moonlight-and-magnolias accent. Hard to miss that by now he’s sparred with all the regulars, male and female and nonbinary, friendly and not-so-friendly, and never once with Billy.

“He’s asked about you a couple times,” Sam says when they’re outside one day, squinting in the blazing sunshine, cigarette dangling from his lip. Billy quit years ago, but he’s holding an unlit cig between his fingers just for the familiarity of it. “Your stats, where you come from, what you’re like, that kinda thing. Real casual about it. Knew exactly who’d give up intel the easiest.”

“Teddy Q.”

“Teddy Q at first, but he got Vasquez talking, too.”

“Think I have anything to worry about?” Billy asks lightly.

“He ain’t a stalker, if that’s what you mean. Ain’t the type for it.” Sam states this like it’s a fact. Maybe it is. He’s rarely wrong about people.

Billy raises his eyebrows. “What type is he, then?”

“Ex-military,” Sam says, “but you knew that already.” He drops his stub and grinds it into the asphalt, smirking benevolently all the while. “Ex-military with the biggest crush this side a’ the Mississippi and no fucking idea how to make a move on you like a grown-ass man, so he’s resorting to high school tactics.”

Put bluntly like that, it seems pretty obvious. Billy tilts his head to the side, considering.

“Go easy on him, Rocks,” Sam advises before he steps back inside. “You know how good, decent, regular clients are thin on the ground around here.”

“I’m your best client. _And_ your best advertisement,” Billy says, but he concedes the point. Mostly. 

He doesn’t do anything concrete with this information for a week. Just spends it watching Goodnight openly, not bothering to conceal his regard in the slightest, absolutely enjoying the shit out of the way color chases across Goodnight’s pale skin when he flushes. Billy’s always had a thing for military folks - sue him, competence is a turn-on - so it’s easy to fall further into this game, to run his eyes appreciatively across the shifting muscles in Goodnight’s back and arms when he’s sparring, to smile widely every time Goodnight looks at him. To schedule his training sessions so they wind up in the locker room at the same time. To observe and cross-examine his own deepening attraction even as he coolly strips out of his street clothes right in front of Goodnight - the fifth time this week - knowing exactly the effect he’s having on the man. 

Twin spots of red burn high in Goodnight’s cheeks by the time they head out to the floor, still having exchanged nothing more than the barest minimum of greetings (stiffly polite on Goodnight’s part, low and teasing on Billy’s part) and a couple of scorching looks between them. It’s fantastic, if he’s being honest. Sam notices - of course he does - though he doesn’t comment beyond a mild lift of an eyebrow, just takes advantage of Billy’s energy and drives him even harder than usual.

This culminates in pairing him up with Red Harvest for a sparring match, which means clearing his mind completely of everything but the fight - normally not a difficult order, but Red smirks at him as they circle each other. 

“Yo, Bruce Lee. Where’s your white dude today?”

“In the weight room,” Billy answers. “Why, you interested?”

“Just wondering when you’re gonna put him out of his misery.” Red feints and jabs, ducks Billy’s answering blow. “The whole gym’s taking bets.”

“Lose this match and I might give you a hint.” Billy gets a solid shot to the side of Red’s head guard, but has to dance out of a lightning-quick grappling attempt.

“Psh, that’s just desperate.”

Billy’s mouth twitches. “Was worth a try.”

“Tighten up, Rocks, before I do it for you,” Sam barks from the side.

They settle in after that, trading points and bouts as Sam critiques them from head to toe, to hell and back, pithy and merciless. ( _You can take the noncom out of the army, but you can’t take the army out of the noncom,_ Billy had once heard Goodnight commenting to another vet, who’d only groaned and massaged her shoulder in agreement.) “Fucking roundhouse kicks,” Red complains from the mat at the end of the last bout, half resentful, half admiring.

Billy silently offers him a hand and he bounces onto his toes with all the elasticity of the insufferably young. He grins as he grabs his bottle and dumps water over his head. “So. Where’s my hint, asshole?”

To Billy’s right, Sam approaches with clear intent. To his left, Goodnight steps out of the weight room, towel around his shoulders, eyes darting around the gym. They land on Billy like he’s a homing beacon. He smiles in response, all slow and predatory, and gives a little wave just to watch Goodnight freeze. “Stick around today, maybe you’ll see something,” he says to Red.

Red wrinkles his nose. “Quit smiling so much, man. You’ve been freaking everyone out.”

“Christ, it’s like I’m stuck in a goddamn teen movie,” Sam deadpans, having reached them. “You’re gonna get your sweet ass kicked six ways to Sunday next month if that’s the kind of focus you’re pulling these days, Rocks.” His tone is mild, but Billy inclines his head and accepts the reproof for what it is. 

“Red, you’re done for the day. Go cool down. Jack wants to see you after, something about trying a new diet.”

“Fucking finally. Maybe I’ll get to eat something that doesn’t taste like dog shit for once—” Red’s disgruntlement trails behind him as he heads to the locker room, shedding safety gear as he goes.

“Wouldn’t count on it,” Billy says in an undertone. 

The corner of Sam’s mouth ticks up. Then he folds his arms. “I wasn’t kidding, Billy. You’re distracted.”

Billy meets Sam’s gaze, sliding his face into careful blankness. “It will be dealt with. Today.”

“See that it is.” Sam sighs. “And don’t do anything stupid, you hear me?”

“No. Nothing permanent.” 

Sam just shakes his head, but he claps Billy on the shoulder before disappearing into his office. Which leaves Billy alone among the mats to breathe in and breathe out on a five count, centering himself. He stops by his locker first, strips off his head guard, gloves and shirt, and re-wraps his hands, letting the familiar figure-eight ritual guide him to stillness. Then he comes back out and looks around. 

Goodnight’s still on the floor, caught up in conversation with Vasquez - back turned, hip cocked, body language loose and relaxed as Billy prowls toward them. Vasquez spots him first over Goodnight’s shoulder, breaks into a wide grin and a loud, “Ey, lobo feroz! How’s it goin’, man?”

“Lookin’ for a sparring partner,” Billy says, letting himself be fascinated by the visible tension that ripples up Goodnight’s spine, pulling shoulders and neck up to military straightness. He draws level with the two men and looks back at Vasquez when it seems clear Goodnight won’t look directly at him. “Friendly preferred.”

“Sorry, me and Josh got a date with the mats, gonna settle our differences over Maria for real,” Vasquez says easily. “So maybe Goodnight here…Goodnight, you met Billy already, yeah?”

If Vasquez didn’t already have basically unlimited soda privileges at the Rocks family convenience store over in Koreatown, he’d’ve earned that twice over just for the way Goodnight finally turns and meets Billy’s gaze, and fuck, those eyes, they’re always so fucking _blue_. 

“Yes, I do believe we’ve made an acquaintance,” Goodnight drawls, mouth dragged up on one side into the half-grin that Billy privately bets has gotten him into at least as much trouble as it’s gotten him out of. 

He is going to _ruin_ this man.

He starts with a quiet, “How about it?”

Suspended in time, waiting for the answer - the blush burns its way across Goodnight’s face again, in slow motion. Anticipation curls in Billy’s gut at the answering glint in Goodnight’s eyes.

“Yeah, okay, why not,” he finally says, smooth and hoarse at the same time. “Don’t have my gear with me—”

“I got extra,” Billy says, holding up a wrapped hand. “I know you like to spar freehand.”

“Gorgeous _and_ observant.”

Billy bares his teeth, delighted. “Come on.”

To his disappointment, Goodnight elects not to take his shirt off, but accepts the wraps readily enough, twisting and taping with practiced ease. Billy runs through a couple stretches while he waits, considering his strategies ahead. Goodnight’s a capable fighter with military training - no-frills, efficient - but he’s hampered primarily by two factors: injuries that are less than a year old, and the fact that most of his training was intended for killing people. He’s had to relearn. Another advantage: Billy’s faster.

Not that winning is the point of this. At least, not the kind of winning any respectable martial arts league would want to certify. Billy smirks to himself as he sinks into a deep backbend stretch for the hell of it, eyes closed and relishing the burn.

“Well now, that just ain’t fair,” Goodnight says.

Billy opens his eyes. Fuck, that half-grin looks appealing even upside-down. “You ready?”

“Sure am. Are you?”

Billy uncurls himself, seamlessly rolling onto his feet and pivoting, bringing his hands up at the conclusion of the movement. Then he smiles. “You have no idea.” 

It’s not a long round. Goodnight attacks first, a steady rhythm of punches and strikes, probing his opponent’s defenses. Billy opens himself to the onslaught, content to redirect energy away from himself and wait. Goodnight’s just fast enough and skilled enough that he has to drop the smirk and pay attention, but sooner or later...he catches a chop meant for his neck and darts in, pinning Goodnight’s arms in a grappling hold. Their bodies strain and shift against each other, seeking out weaknesses in stance, leverage, grip.

This close, Billy’s face is tucked into Goodnight’s neck, intimate as lovers. He leans in and inhales shamelessly - sweat, citrus-scented detergent, tobacco smoke, a hint of pomade - and gladly lets himself be distracted by the vivid mental image of pressing open-mouthed kisses to warm skin, lets his legs fold easily when Goodnight finds an advantage and throws him. Glimpses a flash of startled blue as he leans into the momentum and doesn’t let go of his hold, pulling Goodnight down to the mat with him. They land with a thud, Goodnight’s body a deliciously solid weight on top of Billy, hips cradled between Billy’s thighs. 

He gets about the length of three breaths to process _that_ sensation before Goodnight scrambles off him like he’s been scalded. 

Billy picks himself up a bit more slowly. Takes in the way Goodnight’s nervously shifting from foot to foot, staring down at the mat and scrubbing the back of his neck. Asks simply, “Another round?”

“You’re pulling your punches,” Goodnight mutters.

They both know Sam doesn’t allow full speed or power without safety gear, so Billy waits. When Goodnight finally looks up at the silence, all he offers is a neutral, “Am I?”

Goodnight shakes his head. “Remind me to never, ever get suckered into a poker game with you,” he says, but he stops fidgeting and settles back into a sparring stance. With a hint of a smile, even. And a look of sly challenge in his eyes.

Never mind Billy, clearly _Goodnight_ had been the one holding something back. His strikes come quick and relentless now, with real force behind them, and some decently respectable kicks thrown in for good measure. Billy doesn’t mean to start grinning like a man-eating wolf on the hunt after a minute of this; that’s just what happens naturally.

He gives back as good as he’s getting. Kick to Goodnight’s hip, evade his grab, pivot and jab. Goodnight blocks the punch and returns his grin from behind crossed arms. 

“Sam’ll have both our heads when he finds out about this,” he says conspiratorially.

Billy gives him a coy look. “You could always tap out. End it sooner.”

“Mm. Don’t reckon I will,” Goodnight drawls. “Faint heart never won fair lady, after all.”

Coquettish bastard. Billy slides toward him with a seductive roll of his hips, like they’re strangers on a nightclub dance floor, then whips into an easy strike aimed low on Goodnight’s weak side. Goodnight blocks as expected, and retaliates as expected, but Billy doesn’t block it in turn. Takes the blow instead, twisting around with his fist up even as impact vibrates with electric shock through his ribs. Steps into his punch with the power coiled in his hips and back and shoulders, hooking a foot behind Goodnight’s ankle at the same time.

Goodnight’s head snaps back and he drops with a pained grunt. Billy follows him down to the mat, knees landing on either side of his hips, hands planted on his shoulders. Not any kind of proper submission hold recognized by any martial art ever invented, and yet - he knows he’s won anyway when Goodnight goes pliant under him, unmistakable and intoxicating. 

They breathe together for a long moment, caught in the sudden stillness. Goodnight’s irises are ringed in darker blue. Billy leans in closer, watches his pupils dilate and send ripples through the flecks of grey. But he doesn’t look dazed or out of it, so maybe they’ll get away with only minor scolding. 

“You okay?” Billy asks quietly. 

“Aside from the kickin’ you just delivered to my pride? Yeah, I’m all right.”

There’s a small cut high on Goodnight’s cheek, Billy realizes abruptly, beading with small drops of blood, deep scarlet against his skin like expensive lipstick. Which means...Billy lifts his hand to find the same red smeared across a knuckle and finger, and a corresponding cut. He looks up and catches Goodnight’s gaze flickering back to him.

Slowly, deliberately, without breaking eye contact, he brings his hand to his mouth. Curls his tongue around the base of his middle finger and laves up the entire length, leaving it shiny and glistening. Back down to the knuckle: salt, skin, metal. The open cut stings.

“Christ in heaven, _”_ Goodnight says, eyes wide, chest heaving, even hoarser than before. “You’d tempt a saint right out of paradise itself.”

“You saying you’re a saint?” Billy asks. Fingers clean, he presses the edge of his hand wrap between his lips, sucking on cotton and copper, chasing the last droplets of blood. 

_“Fuck,”_ Goodnight rasps. “No, cher. Fuck, no, I’m really not.”

Billy feels light-headed, high as a kite on the raw desire shimmering between them. Greedy at the sight of Goodnight’s mouth, slightly open and panting. To get that mouth wrapped around his cock—

“Hey uh, if y’all are gonna bone right here in front of everybody, could you hold on a second and let me get my phone first?”

“Güero, no.”

“What? They’d get mad views on Pornhub, I’m just _sayin’.”_

Billy blinks slowly and shoves down the instinct to snarl. It helps that Goodnight’s started to laugh silently, eyes crinkled up in the corners, a whole different kind of charming. “Well, Joshua,” he says, not looking away from Billy, “you ain’t wrong about that, I’ll give you that.”

“Hear that, V, even Goodnight’s cool with it—”

“Vasquez,” Billy says.

“Yup,” Vasquez says. Judging by the squawking, Faraday’s been put in a headlock. “Showers are empty!” Vasquez adds cheerfully as he drags his boyfriend away, and then Billy’s finally, _finally_ free to get up and extend a hand. But he doesn’t let go once Goodnight’s up, just turns and tows him straight past the locker room. 

“Y’know, normally I go through dinner and drinks before I get to this part,” Goodnight says, bemused. His voice echoes off tile as Billy nudges him into the biggest shower stall and down onto the bench. “My ma, god rest her, raised me to be bit of a traditionalist that way. Candles, flowers, romance...wooing...”

Billy looks up from where he’s dropped to his knees between Goodnight’s legs. “Do you _want_ to do dinner and drinks first?” he asks curiously. “We can if you want.”

Goodnight stares down at him, something like wonder in his face. “You’re serious, aren’t you.”

“You like sushi?” Billy lays a soft kiss on the side of Goodnight’s knee - it’s right there, and he wants to - but manages to resist going further. “I know a place. The chef owes me a favor.”

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but - how are you even real?”

“Goodnight.”

Goodnight raises his hand and pushes a strand of hair out of Billy’s face, smooths it behind his ear. Turns it into a caress, lingering on Billy’s jaw. “Goody, cher. Call me Goody.”

He’s tracing the shell of Billy’s ear now. Billy lets the shiver ripple through him and into his voice, dropped low and throaty as he says, “Okay, Goody. Tell me to stop and I’ll stop.” He slides his hands up the inside of Goody’s thighs slowly, gently pressing outward, and shivers again when Goody just...allows Billy to open his legs, allows him to lean in and nuzzle his crotch, black polyester catching on the chapped skin on his lips. He presses his mouth to the growing bulge, breathing out slowly and letting heat and saliva dampen the fabric for a long moment before he pulls back. 

“God,” Goody says faintly.

Billy looks him in the eye. “Tell me to stop or take your clothes off.”

Goody’s eyes crinkle. “Well, when you insist with such sweet poetry,” but he obliges willingly enough, while Billy gets rid of his own shorts. He moves back in as soon as Goody’s bare, urges him to sit on the edge of the bench and lean back against the wall, spreads him wide with a palm on either thigh. Smiles appreciatively at the elegant curve Goody’s body makes, the helpless sensuality in his sprawl, and smiles even more when Goody swallows hard under the frank regard. Scars litter his torso in vicious constellations - but that’s for later. When they have time, and privacy, and a bed.

Billy contents himself for now with lingering, open-mouthed kisses to Goody’s inner thighs while he unwraps his hands, teasing with lips, teeth and tongue until he reaches up to drop the wraps on the bench next to Goody. Then he wastes no time curling a hand around Goody’s dick, gripping and stroking hard enough to get a jerk and a hissed, “Mother of _god.”_

It’s a nice enough cock, about average length and girth, but straight, neat and prettily shaped for all that. Billy runs a thumb over the circumcision scar, then follows suit with his tongue. Mouths the head, enjoying the stretch of his lips around it. Pulls off and licks the fat vein on the underside, all the way down to the base, then back up again. Presses the tip of his tongue to the slit.

“Fuck, _fuck,”_ Goody’s mumbling. “Still can’t believe this is happening. You’re like a fucking dream, cher, the best kinda wet dream, god, fuck, yeah, like that—”

Billy closes his eyes, tucks his teeth behind his lips, and swallows Goody down for real. Goes slowly to let himself adjust, breathes deep through his nose. Hands come to rest in his hair, petting him with long strokes that send warm honey-drips of pleasure down his spine, making it a little easier to relax and keep swallowing past his gag reflex. 

He stops when he’s got his nose resting on Goody’s lower belly, swallowing in controlled waves curling through tongue and jaw and throat, working through each tightening ripple around the solid, inescapable mass in his mouth. He pauses for a moment, still breathing slow and deep. _Caught like a fish,_ he thinks suddenly, _hooked and writhing— Fuck._ Arousal tears through him when the thought sinks in, swift, brutal. Every other sense comes rushing back: the sour musk of Goody’s skin and hair and sweat, the bitter flavor of precome, the gentle pressure on his scalp, the harsh croon of Goody’s voice— “You’re gonna fucking well kill me, you know that?” all rough and velvet— the fucking _cock_ in his _throat,_ gagging him and choking him and still making him harder than he’s been in years, brain whiting out—

His throat spasms, control gone. Tears squeeze past his closed eyelids as he tries to remember how to breathe.

“Hey, easy, easy,” Goody gasps out. “God...damn, look at you, darlin’.” He thumbs the tears off Billy’s cheeks, tries to ease him back. That gets Billy to open his eyes for a warning glare. But he pulls back a little, slow glide up the shaft, hollowing his cheeks and sucking hard. Then down again, and Goody’s still talking, curses elongating into moans each time Billy tightens his throat. He glances up in time to see Goody tilt his head back against the wall, stretching out his long pale line of a throat. Billy flutters his tongue against the underside of the cock head just to watch that mouth snap shut mid-curse, watch those eyes fall closed in bliss.

He could do this for hours. Tease and touch and deny until Goody’s wrecked, begging, marked irrevocably as Billy’s, and _fuck,_ he wants that. They haven’t kissed even once, and he wants that. The sweet-sharp taste of his desire floods his mouth, makes him move faster, more urgently.

Goody’s whining with each breath now, fingers tangled tight in Billy’s hair, thighs trembling. Billy brings a hand up and cups Goody’s balls, rolling them in his palm. Curls his other hand around Goody’s cock, pulls off until he’s just sucking on the head, jacks the shaft fast and hard. Swirls his tongue in time to his strokes. 

The noise Goody makes when he comes sounds like it’s torn straight from his chest, low and gravelly and wordless. Billy stays still, eyes glued to Goody’s face - open, shattered, beautiful - lets every shudder and spasm ride across his tongue, swallows steadily despite the bitterness. He strokes the tops of Goody’s thighs, gentles him through the aftershocks.

Whatever Goody sees when he finally pries his eyes open and looks down, it’s enough to have him sliding off the bench into Billy’s lap, knees bracketing Billy’s folded legs. He’s slung an arm around Billy’s shoulders, reached down to fist his cock, and sealed their mouths together before Billy has a chance to move or react. He jerks _hard_ against Goody’s weight, groans into his mouth, swept away by pleasure without warning. 

Orgasm comes as a relief, like every muscle in his body coiling and releasing at once, wildfire racing up his spine.

“Lord above, but you’re mesmerizing when you come,” Goody murmurs into Billy’s hair as he rests his head against Goody’s shoulder, catching his breath, still twitching a little. “Like Saint Teresa in her garden, pierced in eternal ecstasy by her golden spear.”

“You always pull out the five-dollar words after sex?” Billy mumbles.

Goody shakes against him with a chuckle. “One of the few things I can be relied upon to do, if we’re bein’ honest.”

Billy lets himself drift in the darkness behind his eyelids for a moment more, but even post-fight, post-coital endorphins can’t save his legs from going numb. Without opening his eyes or moving his head from Goody’s shoulder, he reaches up to turn the shower knob to full-blast hot. 

The water still comes out cold, of course, and hits Goody first. He swears and laughs, “All right, all right, I can take a hint,” as he clambers to his feet and pulls Billy up with him. 

They sluice off with the body wash somebody had left behind (“Ugh, Axe.” “Alas, I’m afraid beggars who sexile an entire gym from their rightful bathing facilities so they can have it off with other beggars can’t be choosers.” “Sexile, Goody? Really?”) and take turns rubbing each other's legs down under the heated spray. Which soon turns into wet, warm, unhurried kisses, leaning languidly against each other in the stall until Faraday bangs the door to the showers open and announces to the area at large, “Okay, playtime’s over, kiddies, I’m comin’ in there and if you’re not done I swear to god I _will_ be filming you and sell the rights to the lowest bidder.”

“I want seventy percent of the royalties,” Billy shoots back.

“Seven— you have any idea how hard it is to shoot in these lighting conditions?” Faraday yelps. “I deserve sixty percent minimum for doing all the work.”

“Forty,” Billy says, and steps out of the stall. “It wouldn’t be _your_ name and reputation bringing viewers in.”

Faraday, wearing nothing but a towel, whistles and looks Billy up and down with zero evidence of shame or discretion. “Yeah, okay, point taken. Hey, new plan: you and Goodnight, me and V, four guys, one bed. I’ll even promise not to get the camera out.”

“In your undoubtedly richly perverted dreams, Joshua,” Goody says, coming out of the stall with their wet clothes bundled up in his hands. He meets Faraday’s gaze almost defiantly as he joins them; the scars stand out red and ridged against his pinkened skin.

“Whatever, it’s your loss,” Faraday says comfortably. “V does this fuckin’ incredible trick with his tongue, seriously—”

“You know Vasquez is like my little brother, right?” Billy says, touching Goody’s shoulder and moving towards the door. “I never want to hear this. Ever.”

“See if I give y’all a heads-up ever again!” Faraday hollers after them, and then the door swings shut.

There aren’t that many people in the locker room, thank fuck, but there are enough that Billy keeps to the empty aisles between locker stacks with a vaguely threatening expression fixed to his face. He towels off and dresses quickly.

“You okay?” he asks when he turns around to find Goody waiting for him, fully dressed, gone so tense and blank Billy finds himself crowding into his space without realizing it. He curls his hand around the back of Goody’s neck, leans up a little to catch his gaze. “Hey, Goody. You with me?”

Goody blinks at him, slowly coming back from wherever he’d been. “Yeah, I…” He breaks off, shakes his head a little, scrubs a hand over his face. “Don’t like bein’…exposed.”

“Mm.” Billy rubs his thumb in small circles at the base of Goody’s skull and gives him a few seconds to settle. When he looks back up, his eyes clear and present again, Billy asks, “Were you serious earlier?”

“Serious?”

“About the wooing.”

Goody blinks again. Then he smiles, small but real. “Well, of course. I never joke about wooing.”

“And I said I know a place. You good with that, or do you have somewhere else in mind?”

“Naw, sushi’s fine to start with.”

Goody’s neck, Billy’s pleased to note, has loosened up somewhat. He gives it one last caress, then steps back. But the heat between them remains, radiates through the way Goody looks at him, the way Billy’s chest feels full of anticipation. Like the moment before he steps into the cage, charged and alive.

He jerks his head toward the door. “Come on.”

Goody smiles wider. “Lead the way, cher.”


	2. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> About a year later.

The ringside doc glues the cut over Billy’s left eye back together without much trouble, which doesn’t stop Goody from checking him over as soon as she moves on to the other fighter. His touch lingers far too long and far too tenderly on Billy’s cheek for a room with this much testosterone in it, and neither of them give a single solitary fuck. Billy closes his eyes under the caress, then rolls his neck and his shoulders, breathing in Goody’s familiar scent and letting it settle him to calmness. 

Sam moves in then, with Emma in step behind him. The three of them form a unified shield around Billy, a small bubble at the edge of the cage safe against cameras and prying eyes. 

“Got him on the ropes, Billy,” Sam says. “He’s gonna play dirty in the last round. You know what to do.”

“It’s just Arcade,” Emma says, eyebrows raised. 

“Which is why Billy’s going to win. But we got a vested interest in him coming out the other side with all four limbs and his head intact.”

“I know Eddy,” Goody says, mouth turned down in the corners. “One of the fairest refs in the business. Arcade ain’t one of Bogue’s, he wouldn’t get away with that kind of cheating.”

Sam shrugs. “No. But what he is, is a little man with big ideas and not enough smarts to think ‘em all the way through.”

“I should quit toying with him, then,” Billy says.

“Yeah. You’ve given them their show.” Sam’s eyes flicker towards a camera guy who’s wandered too close. He steps smoothly around to block the guy’s view of Billy. “Time to put him down.”

Emma crosses her arms and shoots a hard look over her shoulder at the knot of people on the other side. “If he tries anything, I’ll make sure he never sees the inside of a ring again.”

Goody stays after the other two have stepped out of the cage, even with fight officials gesturing increasingly impatiently.

“Worried?” Billy asks. 

“For you? Always and never.” Goody casually rubs his fingertips over the seam of his lips, a signal for Billy to do the same, and then they clasp hands. _Palm to palm, holy palmer’s kiss,_ Billy had said when Goody proposed the gesture on a whim one day. For the absolute delight on Goody’s face, it was worth dredging up worse than memories of high school Shakespeare.

“Give him hell, cher,” Goody says, wearing the half-grin again.

Billy returns his smile, with teeth. “I’ll give him worse.”

Goody’s fingers drag across Billy’s palm when they part, a last kiss between them, and then he’s gone.

Across the floor, Arcade’s people have cleared out as well. The crowd roar rises steadily, white noise in Billy’s ears as he puts his mouthguard back in. He tracks Eddy the referee in his peripheral vision, but he’s focused on the squat figure swaggering toward him with an ugly sneer painted on his face. 

“You fellas ready?” Eddy waits until they’ve both nodded.

Billy offers his customary handshake, as he did before the first round. But this time Arcade doesn’t take it. His sneer deepens.

“It’s your funeral, Arcade,” Billy thinks he hears Eddy mutter, but he lets the fleeting trace of amusement pass quickly. Lowers his hand, expressionless, and shifts easily into a fighting stance. 

“On my signal.”

Arcade’s already moving before Eddy finishes speaking, bulling straight towards Billy and attempting a headbutt that Billy avoids by dint of stepping to the side. He comes back around even more aggressively, aiming low for a...groin strike, Billy’s brain registers with mild disappointment even as he sidesteps again, pivots, and roundhouse kicks him in the head.

The crowd screams. Eddy checks Arcade’s prone body over before he stands and pulls Billy’s arm up. The crowd screams louder. The cage swarms with officials, doctors, cameras, entourage. Billy’s moving the second Eddy lets go, cutting his way through the press of people and ignoring everyone trying to get his attention. 

Goody meets him just outside the cage, smirking just a little in Arrogant Manager Mode, and takes his elbow. Sam and Emma come up to flank them. At the door to the locker room, Emma turns back, smoothly intercepting broadcasters and blocking them from following their group in. “Yes, we _will_ be filing a complaint with the tournament board,” she’s saying when the door shuts. They’ll get better answers from her anyway. 

Billy sits on a bench and keeps the sphinx act up while the physician examines him, only nodding or answering “Yes” and “No” to her questions. It’s only when Goody’s settling on his knees in front of him that he drops his mask, knowing it means they’ve cleared the area of everyone but their people.

“Not a bad day’s work, Mister Rocks,” Goody says, taking Billy’s hand and beginning to cut and unwrap the gauze. 

“Can’t wait to find out what Arcade calls me on Twitter after this,” Billy deadpans.

“Oh, yeah. Can’t imagine how he’ll top the last one. Posted it right before your match, actually.”

“What was it?”

“‘You scum-sucking runt of a man’,” Goody quotes in a mocking nasal twang and grins. “Our boy thinks he’s living in High Noon, apparently.”

Billy hums thoughtfully. “I think I’d look good in a cowboy hat.”

“Darlin’, you’d look fantastic wrapped in an old burlap sack, but I concur. I can just see you now: Billy Rocks, all in black and white, stalking the high plains of the Wild West. Master assassin,” Goody adds, face alight with mischief. “Twirlin’ his six shooter like the bad mother he is.”

“No. Knives.” Billy flexes his newly freed hand and gives Goody his other hand. “I’d be twirling knives. An entire belt of them, sheathed in engraved silver.”

“Why, cher, that’s awfully and suspiciously detailed of you. Have you been fantasizing without me?”

“I was planning on telling you.” Billy can feel his lips curling up, small and sly. “So what kind of cowboy would Goodnight Robicheaux be?”

“Me?” Goody waves dismissively. “Nah, I wouldn’t be a cowboy. I’d be a simple farmer of the land. Down in the sod. Nothing too heroic.”

“You. A farmer,” Billy says flatly. 

“Ah! Cut to the quick by the hand of my own beloved.” When Billy just twitches his eyebrows a fraction of a millimeter up, Goody grins again. “What? I could have hidden agricultural talents.”

“Hidden. Sure.”

“When the two of you are done inflicting your flirtatious toils on the rest of us,” Sam says, sitting down next to them, “the sharks are waiting in the press room. How are you feeling, Billy?”

“Fine. Hey. What kind of cowboy do you think Goody would be?”

“Well,” Sam just rolls with it, glancing down at Goody, “sharpshooter’s the obvious choice, ain’t it?”

“Far too fuckin’ obvious, Sam,” Goody complains. He has medals and awards from his time in the Army, Billy knows, but they’re a year into dating and six months into cohabitation and Billy’s still never seen them. “I’d’a expected some more imagination out of you of all people.”

“Bounty hunter, then. Southern gentleman of fortune. All Shakespeare quotations and genteel arrests to pay for your scented beard oil.”

“Fuck you.” 

“Only with Billy’s permission,” Sam retorts, smiling toothily. 

“You see what I have to put up with, Billy? Slings and arrows,” Goody says with faux dignity. Billy turns his hand over as the last of the gauze falls away and catches Goody’s hand in his own. 

“I’d give you my permission if you really wanted to, you know,” Billy says, looking deep into Goody’s eyes. 

Goody’s mouth just about falls open for a long, outraged moment before Sam bursts into a loud guffaw and he shakes out of it. “Sam’s _straight,”_ he manages to splutter.

Billy doesn’t blink. “Is he?”

“Whether he is or not, Sam is also happily married and monogamous,” Sam says pointedly as he gets up from the bench. “All right, you two, get out of here. Faraday’s up next. Billy, your adoring public awaits.”

And there goes his good mood. The press room’s always an exercise in PR bullshit, always too cold after the heated mugginess of the locker room. The camera flashes make him jittery. The questions are dumb. And he feels like a brain-dead parrot when he regurgitates the bland non-statements Goody and Emma painstakingly coached into him after the last time Billy accidentally gave an honest answer to a reporter. 

And they’re probably going to ask him about Arcade’s cheating, this time. And about the fighter’s union. And about Bart Bogue. Fucking hell.

“Fame is a sarcophagus, eh, cher?” Goody says, stroking Billy’s wrist bone with his thumb, sympathy in his eyes.

Billy just sighs through his nose.

“Hey.” Goody reaches up, brushes a lock of hair behind Billy’s ear. Billy lets his head drop and his shoulders slump, resting his arms on his legs as he leans forward. Goody takes the hint and leans up to touch his forehead to Billy’s, curving a hand around his neck, letting the private moment of peace settle between them. 

“I’m behind you every step of the way. Always remember that.”

“Where I go, you go,” Billy recites, closing his eyes. “Where you go, I go.”

“Damn straight, darlin’.” The hand on his neck slides around to cup his jaw, and dry lips touch his in a featherlight kiss. Billy sinks into it, opening his mouth a little and letting Goody’s warmth bleed through him, mellowing out the last of the adrenaline, secure in the knowledge that none of the Rose Creek people around them will take notice or care.

He opens his eyes when they finally part, to find Goody smiling crookedly at him. 

“Ready to go knock ‘em dead with your great wit and brilliance?”

“No,” Billy says. “But bribe me with the reward of sushi afterwards and I’ll think about it.”

“Sure, I can promise you sushi.”

His eyebrows shoot straight up when Goody then lifts Billy’s hand to his mouth and deliberately kisses each knuckle. “Can promise you _much_ better than that, too. When we’re home.” Blue eyes hot and unwavering.

Billy feels his lungs hitch hard in his chest. “Okay,” he says, quiet and almost breathless, like taking a blow to the solar plexus with how much he loves this man. Sushi and sex, Shakespeare and terrible cowboy movies. From frenzied desire to steadfast commitment in less than a year, just like that. Billy’s fiercely independent path through life upended completely and utterly. 

He couldn’t regret it less if he tried.

He squeezes Goody’s hand hard, pulls him up with him when he stands. Drawing strength from Goody the same way Goody draws strength from Billy. It’s fitting. Neither of them ever smiled this easily before, he doesn’t think.

“Let’s go,” Billy says, and that’s _his_ promise.


End file.
